Vinyl and Collectibles reviewed and geeked about!

On Monday, I was at a memorial. A catholic service. The deceased had killed himself. Mixed with the grief was a disbelief – an incomprehensible place where nothing can possibly make sense. I was trying to explain depression to a friend. It wasn’t working. A hushed conversation in the back of a funeral parlour isn’t going to do it. Where is a good place?

^^^^^^^^^^^

Some people talk to me about music. It’s built into the description of being a music geek. Like minded people communicate in that somewhat nuanced language, and others will ask you about it when something happens… usually a tragedy. As I walk into my son’s school yard another parent begins.

“Did you hear about Chris Corn…”

“Stop.” I reply. “I don’t mean to be a jerk, but I don’t want to talk about it. Especially in the school yard. And definitely not as a casual conversation.”

He stumbles with his next words. “Sorry, I just…”

“No problem. Just not going to talk about it.” And with those words I deliver my child to the door of the school and walk home.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

My turntable spins. A line keeps coming back to me. I grab the liner notes to verify it. Fuck Wikipedia and the second-hand sources that screw up lyrics on the best of days.

“He hurt so bad / like a soul breaking / but he never said nothing to me…”

In the spring of 1991 I picked up this record – Temple Of The Dog. It was before Soundgarden had released Badmotorfinger in October, and I was telling a recently met acquaintance/friend about it. I hadn’t realized he was the Entertainment Editor at the campus paper until he asked me to write a review. Although, “Hunger Strike” would go on to be a hit the following year, it was “Say Hello To Heaven” that had sold me on the record. It was a song Chris Cornell had written after his former roommate Andrew Wood had died of an overdose. Wood, the vocalist for Mother Love Bone passed before the bands debut record had hit the streets. Like all overdose deaths tend to do, the lines between substance abuse and mental illness get blurred. Wood’s public persona had been one of fun loving and flamboyance, Cornell’s interpretation said something far more personal.

“Since you can’t say to me / now how the dogs broke your bone / there’s just one thing left to be said…”

Cornell’s voice soars into what I think is his most poignant moment. “Say hello to heaven.”

The turntable spins.

^^^^^^^^^

Other people talk to me about depression. I’ve been pretty open about my own battles with it. But, trust me when I say that like minded people do not communicate with conversations about it. You don’t walk up to someone on the street and say, “so, I hear you feel like you’ve been run over and dragged on gravel.” Or… if they do, I’ve not joined that club. Those that have gone through it will either talk about their own experience, or listen as someone talks about theirs. Usually, these take place either one on one, or, if you’ve ever been hospitalized, a group setting. I tend to try and bring a sense of the ridiculous when I do open up, mentioning the full on weeping despair I once had over not finding a clean pair of socks. While a person’s tone can be jocular or matter of fact, there is nothing casual about depression, anxiety or mental illness. Still, my lack of foot covering story gets a laugh as a ‘WTF’ moment.

Still, life can be wonderful and then you have an episode…

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

In June 2001, I was looking out the window of a hospital room down upon a place I had dubbed the “crop circle refueling station.” A fire hydrant in the middle of a large grass field, mowed in circles until it reached the concrete of the building itself. Detoxing off of thirteen prescriptions given for a mixture of pain and overwhelming sadness. It had been six months since I cried about the socks. Three months since the back surgery to remove two herniated discs, one of which had been calcified and impaled the sciatic nerve. The doctors hadn’t caught onto the fact that the ‘Oxy’ mixed with an already diagnosed ‘clinical depression’ was causing a severe reaction.

My life was good, but it felt like shit.

I was so heavily medicated I wasn’t sure which thoughts were real and which were the drugs. What I do remember most about that time in my life… an eternity worth of sleep seemed a whole lot better for me and everybody else than sitting around and waiting for the pain to subside. Three days after I arrived in the hospital, down to just my meds for cholesterol, it felt like a fog was lifting off my brain. Looking down on the “crop circle refueling station” I wondered what the fuck had happened to me.

^^^^^^^^^^^

April 2001. A month after my surgery.

The meds say half a pill before bed. That was an hour earlier. I want to be better. I want to sleep. Fuck it! I’m taking more.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Chris Cornell’s wife released a statement on Thursday. She believes her husband had taken a few extra Ativan tablets after his concert on Wednesday night. A medication that helps with anxiety when taken in low dosage.

Problem with anxiety… patience for medication to kick in doesn’t work so well. If you are having a panic attack, or looking darkness in the eye waiting isn’t something you are prone to do. In a moment like that, when the abyss creeps in, it’s easy to over medicate. And that’s when the real shit begins.

^^^^^^^^^^^

Friday afternoon the CD player is shooting a laser on a plastic disc and I’m being flooded with traces of doom. Every god damned lyric has me projecting bullshit about how dark everything must have gotten over the years. I’m looking for reasons. Except, you know, they just don’t exist. What am I searching for…

^^^^^^^^^^^

A month ago, I was talking to my thirteen-year-old son about Vic Chesnutt. His suicide came up and we both cried. He asked why, and if it was wrong. It went something like this…

My head began to hurt. “I don’t have a good answer for that. Some people will hold up a Bible and tell you it is a sin. Others will talk about how selfish it is to hurt the people you love by ending your own life. Personally, I don’t buy into that. I believe that mental illness… depression; it takes away the hope you have for a good future. It only leaves you with the impression that your pain needs to end, and that you are a burden on those who suffer through it beside you.”

“That doesn’t make sense!”

“What?”

“The burden thing. Mommy pays for you to be home with us. You’re not a burden. So what if he owes money.”

“Part of being an adult is the desire to be self sustaining. That our own life should not impede or lower the people we care about.”

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE! When Grandma and Grumpa got sick you moved and took care of them didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Were they a burden?”

“No. I was exactly where I needed to be. Where I wanted to be. However, they didn’t see it that way. Grandma saw me leave my family to take care of her and it really bugged her.”

“That’s what I mean, if you were sick I would want to be with you.”

“That is how depression works. You forget that people really want to be there for you. You don’t want to ask for help. You don’t want to hold people back from their own lives. You just want to end the pain.”

The conversation went on… it never really reached a satisfying conclusion.

^^^^^^^^^^

Looking through the scores of articles published in the first 24 hours, I come across one in the Huffpost, from Julie A. Fast, an expert on mental illness and a survivor herself. I’m struck by a small paragraph near the end of the piece.

“If he has a brain like mine, he has an illness and his brain was triggered by something that resulted in a suicidal episode. It may have had nothing to do with his amazing life. Sometimes an illness is simply stronger than the person. Sometimes medications mess with our sensitive brain chemicals.”

The words hit me with a mix of confirmation, resignation and an awful strong desire to say “No shit – Sherlock.” I’m pissed off at everyone and no one at all. I resist the idea of opening a bottle of wine as Cornell’s epic voice pleads “reach down, and pick the crowd up.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The day Kurt Cobain died I was the Entertainment Editor of my campus paper. Quite a few people were bugging me to write an obituary. When I didn’t, a couple staff blamed the EIC (Editor In Chief), actually suggesting she didn’t want one. It was ludicrous. She knew why I didn’t, and I never had to explain myself. She could always see right through me. It was personal. As someone who had visited dark places, I wasn’t prepared to go there. I couldn’t express myself in terms that would bring anything remotely insightful. It had nothing to do with all that ‘voice of a generation’ crap, just a sadness that I couldn’t comprehend. Always regretted not saying something, but I simply can’t find words for it. Still haven’t got them.

I don’t know these people, but I know that place. I can’t help but take it personally. Every suicide I hear about hits me. My ears burn. I ache. I place it in a compartment tagged “to deal with later” and wait until I have time alone. Then I ache some more.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Last year a friend posted an article on Facebook – Suicide Rates Amongst Middle Aged Men Rises 43% in the last 15 years. Chris Cornell was 52. I turn 50 in July.

Fuckin’ Facebook and its fuckin’ statistics.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Twenty-four news cycle, major media, outlets that only mention artists when tragedy strikes, headlines about a voice silenced, and I feel rage. Misdirected rage. Quite honestly, why should I give a shit about all the talk about ‘grunge’ and ‘Seattle’ and ‘vocal range’ and the hyperbole surrounding it. 1990’s superlatives that lessen the time to a cliché. I’m smart enough to know what I’m searching for; the need to find something – someone to articulate how I’m feeling. Words that parallel my thoughts and give them voice. A smarter person than I to bring perspective. I’m searching, listening, searching and listening. Nothing so far.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It’s Saturday morning. It starts with “Big Dumb Sex.” Cornell sreams ‘fuck’ enough times to make even Zac De La Rocha blush. This back before Soundgarden could fill a stadium. Before metalheads and alt-rock fans had been hearing “Jesus Christ Pose” on Walkman’s. Before people were bringing his voice up in conversations about rock’s greatest vocalists. It’s just a stupid fuckin’ song by a barely twenty something guy. The hook is the fact that he is using profanity to the point of hilarity, as a means to say “this is my version of pop music.” A parody of all the glam metal/big hair bands of the day. Essentially, it was meant to make you laugh. No deep meaning. Just a moment of being a dumbass.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Outside the funeral home my friend and I get a bit into the whole self-referential morbid mortality thing. He wonders how people can catch up inside a funeral home. How laughter can continue in a room with the deceased. I take a different angle.

“Do me a favor. If or when I go – laugh. I don’t care what the circumstances are – laugh. I don’t want how I died to define me. I don’t want singular moments of when I was exceptional or unexceptional being the focus. I want The Lemonheads punk version of “Amazing Grace” played at the memorial. I want stupid stories regaled for all to hear.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I didn’t know Chris Cornell. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want Wednesday night in Detroit to be his epitaph. So, If, like me, you are looking for something to make sense of it… stop.

Just go put on a record.

Don’t watch the latest CNN updates.

Just put on a record.

Listen.

Repeat.

I suggest the Soundgarden cover of Devo’s “Girl You Want” from the EP SOMMS. It’s awesome fun and a great way to remember a person in their happier “dumbass” moments.

With my son’s friends and their families having planned a birthday party four months ahead, and my lack of memory for dates, I found myself in unfamiliar territory on RSD 2017. Instead of the usual 3- 4 stores I would hit in Toronto; I was down to one shop in Niagara Falls, Ontario and possibly another in Buffalo, New York if too many of my wish list titles were missed.

Having unpacked, and having absolutely no desire to fly down a mixture of plastic and H2O to scream “weeeeeeeeeeeeee,” as my aging back begs stop, I take note vote of a need for a different activity. Just because I’m a geek in need of a walk, I use Google Maps to get me over to SRC Vinyl the night before Record Store Day so I can make sure I don’t get lost the following morning. Sunrises and I don’t have a good track record with established coherent thought, so having prior knowledge of where I’m going is helpful. Besides that, it gets me away from the water park and into a record store. The phone app takes me through an alley and a couple of residential streets before I arrive at a place that should have been a straight line with a single left. Any more directions and the damn phone would have taken me over the falls in a barrel.

Every independent record store has a vibe of its own. A feel that can’t really be reproduced. There was a Milwaukee store that had a lot of open brick and a large shelving system suspended by chains from the ceiling. At the time, I saw it in the late 90’s, it was the best damn store I had ever seen. Just last year in St. Augustine, there is a place I visited that isn’t much bigger than postage stamp, but a cooler selection of new records than every store I had been to in Orlando.

The curious thing, every store seems to be measured by how closely the staff resembles the misfits of High Fidelity. The Nick Hornby classic book, turned John Cusack/Jack Black movie, has become a music geek touch stone by which record stores seem to be judged. Honestly, people in RSD lines over the years keep bringing it up. Regardless of gender, race etc…, it seems that staff need the correct balance of knowledge and attitude to be taken seriously. In this case, it’s exactly what you expect. The staff are awesome. You ask questions and you’ll get real answers. Which is good, because half the fun of the record store is talking with like minded music geeks about any subject that crosses your mind… just because you speak the same language.

It’s probably about a thousand square feet, but the selection is much better than any similar sized store I’ve been at in mid size city. So, my expectations are pretty high for the following morning. Then again, as a teen I tried to convince my doctor I had an allergy to the rise of the sun as it puts me in a foul mood. Didn’t work, but I’m sure you see the point.

The thing is, standing in line for 75 minutes’, half asleep and cold with a cell phone in my hands playing a Settlers of Catan app in place of company, it can lead to odd observations that match that wee hours’ crabby attitude.

SRC is directly across the street from a funeral home that claims to be Canada’s first. (I’m picturing an advertisement along the lines of “Serving The Dead Since 1826,” but, ya know, I’m no ad exec.) In front of the entrance of that home is a large ornamental clock with their business name. Metaphors begin to swirl in my mind. Just what the hell does a funeral home with a clock in front of it say about life and death.

Time is limited?

Your time is coming?

Your time is due?

There is just so many useless thoughts that pop up as you stare at a clock in front of a funeral home. I mention this to the guy beside me, and he points out the ‘Gentleman’s Club’ beside the hotel for the newly deceased. “What do you make of that?” he says. All I can tell him is, “a comedian could make a thousand jokes. However, I’m just not that funny.” At that he laughs.

As with every RSD, there is always the passer by that approaches the random strangers with the second-hand smoke dancing around them and asks just why people are waiting outside a record store. The one non-smoker answers.

“Oh, is it a sale?”

“Not exactly. There selling new and limited release records.”

“Records. I have a bunch from when I was younger. I wonder what they’re worth? People still listen to records?”

“Yes.”

“I saw a news story about people buying records again, but I also heard people get music for free off the internet, so I couldn’t figure out why people still buy records.”

“Some people care about the quality of music and musicians getting payed I suppose.”

“Maybe. But why would I pay when I can get it for free. I’m off to get my Starbucks. Nice chatting.”

“Have a good day.”

The line moves forward just after that. SRC is extremely organized and ready. Going in we receive ballots for a Third Man Records package, and bang you are off to the races.

Now, lining up and being within the first dozen people is great, but it is an advantage that only lasts seconds. Right behind the few are the many, and they all have their lists too. Glimpsing at my own, I start to quickly scan the displays.

David Bowie – Cracked Actor… “THANK YOU!”

Ramones – Singles Box… “That’s mine!”

The Cure – Acoustic Hits (picture disc)… “Yep”

Big Star – Complete Third Box… “Oh yeah!”

Bruce Springsteen … “holy shit. That’s over a …. No thank you!”

The Smiths… Damn! Someone snags it as my hand is reaching out. By now the store is crowded and people are flipping through everything. With that I start to go into shelves.

S for Spoon…. “All right!”

N for Nilsson… “Oooooh, only one copy… and I got it… Awesome!”

F for Flaming Lips… “Oh come on! It was a guaranteed Merry Christmas gift! A sure ‘you’re the best brother ever!’ DAMN!”

In line, ahead of me some ‘dillhole’ is trying to buy multiple copies of an RSD title, which of course, is strictly against the rules.

“Look, I could go through the line again, and then it wouldn’t be the same purchase!”

“I can’t sell you multiples!”

“Look, it’s just one extra.”

“I’m not allowed to do that.”

Let’s stop for one second here folks. She can’t sell him multiples. Really! RSD enforces this policy with banishment. Meaning they wouldn’t get to sell RSD titles again. You are asking a small business to give up thousands in sales so you can buy something for your buddy or flip it on e-bay. It isn’t going to happen, so don’t ask.

“It’s just…”

“Can’t do it. But I will put it back on the shelf for you.”

With that, the battle with the ‘me, myself and I customer’ ends and I get to make my purchase.

“You handled that well.” I remark.

Without a hint of cynicism, she replies “It’s my favourite day of the year… and that wasn’t bad at all.” As I pay in cash she apologizes for having to break open a roll of loonies. I remark, “Oh my god, how dare you cost me a couple seconds opening a roll of change. This is the worst day of my life and I blame you.” She chuckles politely at my horrible attempt at humour.

I get out of the store, and look at the clock. I feel the passport in my jacket pocket. There are several items I really want that, like with every RSD, the local store didn’t receive. It is just part of the experience. So, the question that hangs in the air. Do I cross a border? The stupid clock across the street taunts me.

Do you really have the time?

“Stupid f@#king clock and stupid f@#king metaphors” I say to the stupid f@#king pigeon at the side of the stupid f@#king road. The pigeon keeps pecking at the Tim Horton’s cup discarded ten feet from the garbage can. As I pick up the trash the pigeon takes flight landing on the timepiece to take a crap.

Back at the hotel, I call Record Theatre in Buffalo.

The additional titles I was looking for arrived but due to very busy nature of RSD they can’t say how many they have left, and certainly have no guarantees the titles will not be sold before my arrival. I’ve seen the pictures of RSD at Record Theatre. The lines are looooooooooong. If I could be near the front, it would be great, but arriving an hour after, or worse if the Peace Bridge has a big line, is not a positive prospect. Regardless, I text my former roommate to tell him I’ll be heading to Buffalo to look for some of the titles we missed out on. My wife looks at me with that “you’re seriously crossing the border!” look. The phone rings a few seconds later.

I take off the coat and place it on the bed. No border crossing this time. Then I realize, I have new records that have to sit 24 hours to be heard. Sitting in my ‘completely made for records backpack’ given to me for Christmas are records that have to wait.

In my mind, I scream “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” because, you know, one is not supposed to leave Robert Smith’s face contained in shrink wrap waiting for a turntable to spin on.

It can be difficult to explain pain to people. Words wrapped in metaphors trying to communicate the signals of nerve endings setting your brain alight. Both physical and mental anguish causing a torment that it often seems no one can relate with. I’ve visited these worlds from time to time; laid in a hospital bed and stared at the ceiling with a morphine high; taken pain killers to merely dull the excruciating; ingested medications to keep you from being overwhelmed by the thoughts manufactured by the prescriptions given for the original injury. I was a fan of Vic Chesnutt before I really understood these things, but I found a whole new appreciation once a calcified disc had pierced my sciatic nerve.

Recovering, I spent a great deal of time with Chesnutt’s early catalogue. Hearing it as if for the first time. It had become a part of the soundtrack of that time in my life. Songs that could be depended upon to show up right when I needed a good cry or laugh. His songs had given my own screwed up existence a voice I could recognize.

Driving through the east coast of Canada over a three-week trip, Drunk, West of Rome, and Is The Actor Happy were in constant rotation. At one point, I had to stop the car in Fundy National Park as a porcupine had decided to point its quilled ass in my direction. Just as Chesnutt sang those ever so visual lyrics from “Dodge” … “I showed my behind so frequently, my dear old mother wouldn’t recognise me” the damn beast pulled its ‘pedestrian right of way’ bullshit, giving me its own version of the middle finger salute. A few seconds up the road a moose gives us a completely ambivalent look as if telling us that this particular occurrence happens everyday. A kind of “get over it” gaze of communication. Fuckin’ nature! Get over yourself!

Fast forward seventeen years and my first born says “you’ve had this band on a lot, who is it?”

“Artist. Vic Chesnutt.”

“You going to see him in concert?”

“No. That really isn’t possible anymore. He died around the same time as Grandma and Grumpa.”

“From cancer like them…”

Now, I’ll be honest with ya… I kinda suck at this whole parenting thing. My thirteen-year-old son is the most empathetic child I have ever met. Having worked with and around kids since I was one myself, I can say this without the interference of parental pride. He is a soul that feels things deeply, and this conversation can’t end well. So basically, I’m stuck. He’s thirteen. Old enough to find out about things on his own. Dilemma, do I use this as a teachable moment, or just let it pass. As I said, I do suck at this.

“No.”

“A disease?”

“Are you sure you want to keep asking?”

“Why?”

Sigh. “This conversation could go to places you don’t like.”

“Was it a disease.”

How exactly do you answer this? I’m not a therapist. My own father wasn’t exactly the model of ‘after school special/ Dad of the year/ or ‘Dawson’s Creek’ perfectly scripted answers.

“Yes, but not in the way you are thinking.”

“Then what?”

Not sure how long I stared at my toes before I replied. It felt like enough time to have studied and gotten a psychology degree, but as I looked up my son was still standing in front of me with polar bear pajamas and a determined look.

“He overdosed on prescribed medications. Most people believe he committed suicide.”

“But…”

He teared up. I teared up. My nine-year-old walked down the stairs, looked at us, scoffed, went back up the stairs and started building his next Lego battle.

I began speaking. Or maybe it was stammering. Perhaps pleading. Somewhere in the mix of trying to find words I talked about depression, physical pain, Canadian vs US health care, debt and back to depression. You know what… not a bit of it sufficed.

“Isn’t it wrong to do that, you know, kill yourself?”

My head began to hurt. “I don’t have a good answer for that. Some people will hold up a Bible and tell you it is a sin. Others will talk about how selfish it is to hurt the people you love by ending your own life. Personally, I don’t buy into that. I believe that mental illness… depression; it takes away the hope you have for a good future. It only leaves you with the impression that your pain needs to end, and that you are a burden on those who suffer through it beside you.”

“That doesn’t make sense!”

“What?”

“The burden thing. Mommy pays for you to be home with us. You’re not a burden. So what if he owes money.”

“Part of being an adult is the desire to be self sustaining. That our own life should not impede or lower the people we care about.”

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE! When Grandma and Grumpa got sick you moved and took care of them didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Were they a burden?”

“No. I was exactly where I needed to be. Where I wanted to be. However, they didn’t see it that way. Grandma saw me leave my family to take care of her and it really bugged her.”

“That’s what I mean, if you were sick I would want to be with you.”

“I understand that. But it would suck to need or ask for help. That is how depression works. You forget that people really want to be there for you. You don’t want to ask for help. You don’t want to hold people back from their own lives. You just want to end the pain.”

He thought on it for a while.

“Doesn’t his music make you sad now?”

“Some of it always did. Some of it makes me laugh, some of it makes me cringe, sometimes he can make me laugh and cry in the same song. But I’m not really answering your question, right.”

“Yep.”

“Since grade one, you’ve had friends that have moved away.”

“Yeah.”

“When you think of them do you only think of the fact that they’re gone, or do you think of the fun you had when they were here?”

“The fun.”

“A person shouldn’t be defined by how they died, but by how they lived. Vic Chesnutt was an artist who I really appreciated. His music means a lot to me. Look, I’m not great at talking about this. It sucks that he died, especially how he died. But I still love the music he gave us to enjoy. I don’t hear his death, I hear his voice.”

That thought gets left hanging, and it just doesn’t feel like it should end on this note.

“You know, when I play my battered up old 12 string.”

“The one you bought from a weird old guy, and is difficult to tune because the neck was broken.”

“Yeah. I think of Chesnutt every time I play it.”

He catches me on this and calls me out. “You said the same thing about that guy in The Lemons and Wilco, and that lady Victoria.”

“Yeah. And it’s all true. I think about all those people. It’s just that they all have a unique voice. Not singing style. It is an overall, way of phrasing ideas that connects with me. I love that old piece of crap guitar because it doesn’t sound like any other guitar I’ve heard from anyone. Sometimes when I play it, I feel a whole range of emotions. All of them, coming from different places and all moments I wish I could bottle and stay in a little longer than is actually possible. The music ends, and even when I try to play it again, it just isn’t the same. The music that I keep playing, and paying for, it does that too. Those artists… Vic Chesnutt… they help me find moments that connect to … I don’t know… connect to living. To not being alone. Sometimes you can find moments like that on your own, but other times, it’s great artists that pull out those moments and share them.”

“You’re sounding all weird Dad.”

“I suppose I am.”

Anyway. The Vic Chesnutt reissues have caused a bit of a stir in the house. So far, the three that have arrived sound absolutely perfect. My complaint, has nothing to do with the quality, but rather the shipping costs. Despite much lower priced options available, most companies still choose methods that can nearly double the transaction price. For some of my favorite records I went and purchased the coloured vinyl. However, others will have to wait until they become available at my local record store before I can purchase them. Essentially, shipping is pricing me out of the market. Seeing the chat rooms, I’m not the only one.

P.S. West Of Rome will be out on Record Store Day 2017… next week folks.

Very few bands garner my ever elusive “buy unheard” designation. That place where you drop cash on release day or do that advance order thing. With the popularity of music streaming sites and advance listens on popular music mag web pages, there isn’t much need for the mystery purchase. Regardless, Spoon remains one of the ‘only’ rock bands that actually matter. Whether it be their debut Girls Can Tell, the best-selling Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, my personal favorite Gimme Fiction, or even the half-hearted They Want My Soul, Spoon has remained not only one of the most consistently great bands of this new(ish) century, but also one of the most intriguing.

They don’t often give away the subjects of their songs, usually choosing to keep their cards close to the chest, but when they do… well damn! “Let them build a wall around us, I don’t care I’m going to tear it down…” are lyrics found on “Tear it Down” and coming from a bunch of Texans, it might as well be a declaration of war against ‘Forty-Five.’ Of course, the lyrics are veiled enough that one might see it another way… BUT COME ON – it was written during the f@#king Presidential Primaries.

The thing is, Britt Daniels could write just about anything and it would still allow you enough room to project just about anything you damn well please onto the lyrical theme. “Do I have to talk you into it?” is just open enough to be up for any interpretation. “For your love, my first caress/ your friends have came and went/ Coconut milk/ Coconut water/ You still like to tell me they’re the same/ and whom I to say.” “First Caress” could be a direct shot at a former lover, or a bunch of crap written in a journal that sounded good together… in all honesty it doesn’t matter, the end destination is a great ride.

Which is kinda (kinda isn’t a word, I know… but stay with me here) the point. Great rock ‘n’ roll can be open to interpretation; meaning everything to the writer and something completely different and equally important to the listener. Yet, somehow these two places have common ground, and when I find Spoon to be at their greatest is when these diverging points mix seamlessly. The deeper meaning is secondary to the emotional reaction you have to it. Fuck the definitions and labels… how does it make you feel?

Now, if you are looking to pick this up on vinyl, then you have boat loads of choices… including a lucky lottery version. You can pre-order clear, purple and red. You can special order a pink copy from Urban Outfitters (1000 available). There is the regular black at your local record store….OR…

If you did a pre-order from their label Matador, you may be one of the lucky !!!TWO!!!! to have received golden ticket green vinyl edition. One is being sold in the UK and the other in North America.

I’d love to tell ya I’ve heard them all, but that just isn’t so. The pink Urban Outfitters is spinning on the turntable sounding like a mix between Duran Duran and a Texan version of Elton John (seriously… “I Ain’t The One” is just about as heartbreaking as “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word”). Which is to say, it sounds fantastic and I’m assuming the others do too… but you know… you’ll have to buy it to find out.

You know you’ve had a couple drinks (bottle of Cave Springs Riesling Dry) when you find yourself dancing around the house to the beautiful lo-fi emanations of The Vaselines. Released recently by Sub Pop, via Newbury Comics on “Baby Poop” yellow wax, (which is actually a rather stunning mix of yellow, green and black) it makes you wonder why the f@#k no one had bothered to do it earlier. Truthfully, because I wouldn’t lie to you, most of the indie that came out in the nineties (or 80’s as in this case) seems to be meant for vinyl and The Vaselines especially so.

There is just something about an acoustic/electric guitar and accordion mixed in a very simple rhythm that is just so damn appropriate to the crackle and pop of a turntable and a good set of speakers. Scratch that, even a cheap old paper pair of laminated shit sounds like bliss when Frances McKee is singing about “Molly’s Lips”. Then you add the (oh so) timely nasal and barely on key Eugene Kelly pontificating how inappropriate it is to die for religion (“Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam”) and you have reason to pull out boogie shoes… even if the music doesn’t really have ‘night at the disco’ as a prominent theme (or sound). However, the best stuff isn’t found in the familiar songs that a certain Seattle band covered, but rather in the deep cuts found in the supplementary discs.

Let’s be clear, this isn’t the first time The Vaselines have been repackaged for release… but I’ll be damned if this isn’t the best of the lot. Sure, you got the CD copy of 1992’s, The Way of The Vaselines, put out quickly to capitalize on the Nirvana covers on Incesticide, but really, this particular compilation from 2009 is all about an influential band in their prime. While they might be forever linked to the aforementioned band, The Vaselines have far more in common with the sounds of Australian bands Smudge and Godstar than grunge. Down under there was a far better understanding of “who gives a damn about mix” dynamics and instead “just play the f@#king song” than anything out of Europe or the States (except for Sebadoh, because they are the lo-fi version of rock GAWDS).That said, my point is rather odd as The Vaselines are a Scottish band. Regardless, this three disc set covers their entire early output with demos and live sets. The live stuff sounds as if it is being played in front of no more than 30 arts patrons… which is pretty much exactly how I would want to see them.

You see, (in my mind at least) The Vaselines are not epic rock gods in the classic sense, but rather, a simply epic band in the most direct of ways. There is no place for superfluous crap… just honest and straight forward songs that get straight to the heart of the matter and are done. If all you have heard is a few covers you owe it to yourself to (at very least use Spotify if you must) give them a listen.

As for the vinyl, and the new 300 copies out through Newbury Comics sounds great, you’ve only got two choices. The original 2009 Sub Pop release of Enter The Vaselines is still available at record stores. Then again, if you have a few days and are not worried about waiting for delivery, that “baby poop yellow” version is pretty sweet looking and sounds great too.

At the time of its 1980 release, I had no idea Melt was a political record. In fact, I didn’t know Peter Gabriel had been in Genesis. I was twelve and only knew that this record led to some good songs on the radio. It would be a couple of years later that I would really ‘hear’ it. The kind of record that revealed new things after both multiple listens and a few more years of life experience.

Long before social media and Google, the political inspirations didn’t hit me immediately. However, as a young teen the theme of isolation sure struck home. In addition, it mixed pub-rock with instruments I wasn’t used to hearing in my straight rock records. It was the first connection. Unlike Genesis, which had gone in a more pop-like direction under Phil Collins’ leadership, Gabriel had decided his art should contain a confrontational viewpoint. Hell, even the Robert Fripp guitar work sounded antagonistic at times. Then later as an older teen and twenty-something the world views started becoming clear. This wasn’t some self-indulgent statement about personal disconnection, it was about the failure of people to recognize the humanity in others.

“Not One Of Us” went from being a first person song about seclusion to a tune about segregation.

As a twelve year old, “Biko” was a fable about a situation a world away. By fifteen I understood it as an injustice. An assassination of a good man to silence his voice.

The kid in me heard “I Don’t Remember” as a song about amnesia, which of course it is not. If anything, you can see it as the dehumanization of the “other” from the “others” point of view.

Today in 2017, Melt is a warning. The themes are just as relevant today as when Peter Gabriel recorded them. As I watch the news, a right-wing extremist has walked into a mosque… a place of worship, and murdered. Years of political ramblings and talk-radio idiocy catering to the lowest common denominator had normalized hate. Pulled it out of the shadows and normalized it. We had turned Muslim-Canadians into the “other” and as such dehumanized them. In another case of life imitating art, Melt could have written yesterday. Innocence being tossed into a world of xenophobia with the end result being the death of good people….

For those of you looking to add it to your vinyl collection, the choices are limited but very good. The original pressing is widely available in all kinds of conditions and price points. For new copies, you have four real choices. In 2002, the first remaster was put out in all formats including a 200 gram limited vinyl edition. Despite hitting several websites, I couldn’t get a number for just how limited it was.

In 2010, another limited run was put out in a much more special fashion. This was a 4 disc, single-sided, 200 gram vinyl edition that plays at 45 rpm. Good luck getting one for a decent price. While the 2002 disc will set you back about $100 CAD, the 2010 set goes from between $250 and $500.

A fresh remaster was done in 2015, resulting in the newest editions. 10,000 copies of Melt were being offered to the public as a 200 gram, 2 disc set that plays at 45 rpm. Placed in a gatefold cover, this was also a numbered edition. Even though this release was less than 2 years old, I was unable to track any down in my local record stores and Gabriel’s own site is sold out of this edition. However, online retailers are still offering it at regular prices.

In addition, just this past December (2016) a new version was released on 180 gram vinyl using the latest remaster. While there are none of the ‘bells and whistles’ of the other versions, it does indeed sound great and can be found in the usual $20 range.

Regardless of how you listen to it, Melt is both an important and amazing piece of work and remains a beloved part of my collection.

A lot of people are happy… and even more are angry!!! The world in one day seems more divisive than ever. President Trump’s Inauguration hasn’t been a celebration but rather a clear indication of the deep divisions that separate people throughout the world. Although, now that I think about it, I’m not sure when politics were going all that smoothly. Watching the Women’s rights marches today reminds me of all the past protests over the years. Gender, sexuality, race, and war remain the themes and the only thing that ever changes are the people singing the songs. For those of you looking for a quick soundtrack to all the crap going on… here is one to add to your list.

Sonic Youth – Youth Against Fascism

With the first Gulf War (Iraq) as the background, Sonic Youth vent their frustration and overall hatred of the stupidity in their country. In what is almost a laundry list of issues and various assholes, Thurston Moore calls out poverty, racism, Judge Clarence Thomas, fascists, skinheads, the Christian right and finally, in their drop the mic moment, delivers a line for George Bush himself. “Yeah the President sucks / He’s a war pig fuck / His shit is out of luck / It’s the song I hate”.

Credence Clearwater Revival – Effigy

From the same record that spawned the much more popular anti-war tune “Fortunate Son”, deep cut “Effigy” is clearly the more desperate and impassioned younger brother. While the subject of the ‘burn’ is ambiguous, the emotional content is anything but. John Fogerty lets his voice trail and moan as he laments “The palace door / Silent majority weren’t keepin’ quiet anymore / Who is burnin’ / Effigy.” Watching protests world wide, this song always comes to mind.

Staples Singers – For What It’s Worth

Starting out as a more Gospel oriented band, by the 60’s the Staples Singers had joined the civil rights movement and their music reflected it. Something about this cover being stripped of Neil Young’s signature guitar and leaving only the Staples’ family vocals and Pops’ understated blues guitar make it powerful. Like a whisper, “For What It’s Worth” comes off more sorrowful than the angry original Buffalo Springfield classic. The result is that it demands your attention.

Sam Cooke – A Change Is Gonna Come

A virtual anthem of the civil rights era by one of the greatest voices to grace this planet, Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” is both enlightening and heartbreaking simultaneously. Written as both a challenge and answer to Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ In The Wind”, Cooke’s classic seems more heartfelt and honest with its mixture of despair and gospel belief. To this day, it is impossible to listen to without goosebumps appearing on the skin and a need for tear suppression.

Green Day – American Idiot

You would think that the song and album would say it all, but the band really try to put it all out there in what would become a signature moment for the band. With the second Gulf War (Iraq) in the backdrop, Green Day takes a shot George W Bush and tries to antagonize his supporters with the lyrics “Maybe I’m the faggot America / Not a part of your redneck agenda.” They pulled the song out two days before the election at MTV EMA’s Awards in November changing the lyrics from “mind-fuck” to “Subliminal mind-Trump America.”

Johnny Cash & Joe Strummer – Redemption Song

Something about Cash and Strummer, both unknowingly not far from the grave themselves, singing about regret and not standing idly rings true. Bob Marley’s words (lifted from a speech by Marcus Garvey) “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery” takes on a more significant meaning in the era of media hatred and laments that all news is fake news. Once you add the gravity of broken voices, it becomes that much more urgent. Of course, Marley himself was already suffering from cancer when he wrote this song and was quite reflective about the fragility of life.

The Dirtbombs – Living For The City

Stevie Wonder wrote “Living In The City” as a stroll through the failure of the American Dream. A place where people are casually left behind. The irony is that you need to really listen to the lyrics to catch the anger in the original, as Wonder plays up his pop sensibilities. The Dirtbombs cover leaves nothing ambiguous about it. Mick Collins’ garage/blues guitar lines and more ferocious vocal treatment bring this family story right into the moment. A song that was once angry becomes “livid.”

Bob Marley & the Wailers – Get Up, Stand Up

A tour of Haiti influenced Bob Marley to begin writing this anthem with Peter Tosh. The song was so important to the Wailers that differing versions would appear throughout the 1970’s. It appears first as a Wailers single, then a Bob Marley & the Wailers track, then a Peter Tosh solo single and finally as a solo performance by Bunny Wailer. It would eventually be the final song Bob Marley would play live before his death in 1981. Regardless of the performer, it’s meaning can’t be misinterpreted, and the warning to so-called leaders is obvious… “You can fool some people sometimes / But You Can’t fool all the people all the time”.

Rage Against The Machine – Killing In The Name

Between Tom Morello’s insane guitar work and Zac de la Rocha’s screams of pure anger “Killing In The Name” could make even Chuck Norris blush. Another song released in the Bush Sr years, Rage Against The Machine pull no punches in this expletive-filled song against institutional racism and police brutality. It’s kind of hard to miss the implication of lyrics “Some of those that work forces are the same that burn crosses.” In the end, it’s a pretty simple message for both those ordered to do wrong, and those standing against it… “Fuck You! I won’t do what ya tell me!” repeat over and over folks.

Marvin Gaye – What’s Going On

Gaye may have been blessed with one of the sexiest damn voices on this earth, but he could also tell you just how fucked up the world really is at the same time. Rather than professing anger, Gaye goes for the high road as he tries to de-escalate problems with love. He too looks at “brutality” but suggests we move past it to love one another.

Hole – Plump

People have made a career going after Courtney Love. Yet in one fell swoop, she writes a song that is ambiguous enough to take on several meanings, and powerful enough to be one giant middle finger to media hysterics, the double standards and stupidity of slut shaming, body shaming and celebrity obsession. Who else could sing “I don’t do the dishes, I throw them in the crib” with both a wink and a snarl. It may indeed be a personal sounding protest, but it is a little more universal than most would admit. It’s brilliant!

Bruce Springsteen – Born In The USA

After years of playing it as a rallying cry for jingoistic Republican rallies, now Trump fans are booing “Born In The USA”… I guess the songs’ true meaning is out. Not quite. Republican’s were just pissed “The Boss” was actively campaigning for Clinton. Despite it’s anthemic chorus, “Born In The USA” was and remains a powerful rebuke against nationalism and war.

Peter Gabriel – Biko

In a world that often looks at protesters as instigators of problems, people often forget the price that is paid for using your voice. “Biko” is one of the most powerful songs ever written about a man who was murdered for daring to fight for equality in his nation. Stephen Biko’s death in 1977 was the rock that started the avalanche towards the end of apartheid and Gabriel’s song helped focus the worlds’ attention on South Africa in 1980. As a reminder, he often ends concerts with it.

Nina Simone – Mississippi Goddam

Like many protest songs, “Mississippi Goddam” was written in direct response to the worst of humanity. In this case, it was the murder of civil rights activist Medgar Evers and the later bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. Simone laments about the slow pace of change while people die, “Alabama got me so upset / Tennessee made me lose my rest / And everybody knows about Mississippi goddam.” The song became a civil rights anthem. In fact, her next record Sings The Blues included a reply (“Backlash Blues”) to the backlash she received over “Mississippi Goddam”. She had no regrets because none were required.

The Clash – White Riot

Some idiots thought the Clash were trying to incite race riots with this song. Those people really missed the point. Instead Joe Strummer was telling white kids to protest for a real reason and do away with their misplaced angry bullshit. After watching the rhetoric fly in the election I find this song to be more relevant that ever. Lots of blame, but is it really directed where it should be? Don’t look at me for an answer… I’m just asking the question.

NWA – F*** Tha Police

People get upset when you put down “the boys in blue” but when a massive part of the population is afraid of them, there is a serious problem. NWA put the police straight into the middle of their musical crosshairs and let loose, finding the LAPD to be guilty of being a “redneck, white bread, chickenshit motherfucker.” Spend ten minutes watching the news and you’ll see that sentiment still rings true for minorities throughout the western world.

Michael Kiwanuka – Black Man In A White World

The only song I’ve included from 2016, it features the exact same themes carried from the socially conscious songs throughout the 20th century. Except that we are well into the second decade of the 21st century and the world requires new voices to keep singing. Kiwanuka highlights that despite the fact that many people view the world as having changed, it really hasn’t changed much at all. Worse, unlike Cooke, Gaye, Marley, and Simone, Kiwanuka’s song leaves one not with hope but resignation. I want to believe he’s wrong… but… optimism does seem in short supply these days.

Helen Reddy – I Am Woman

In the 21st Century, “I Am Woman” sounds almost cliché and rather obvious. It is a straight-forward list of equality and empowerment. It is almost embarrassing that this needed to be stated at all in 1972. Except that the current President of the United States of America has been caught saying that he can get away with grabbing women by the pussy because he is a rich celebrity. The embarrassment here is that 45 years after it achieved being a #1 single, it is still relevant. In fact, as I’m writing this more women are marching in Washington to protest the President’s antiquated sense of morality than people that actually showed up to celebrate his inauguration. Ouch!